


Pastrami at Pippi's Diner

by ienablu



Category: Criminal Minds, Fringe, Inception (2010), Labyrinth (1986), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Merlin (TV), The Booth at the End, The Bourne Legacy (2012)
Genre: Cameos, Canon Compliant, Crossover, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 15:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6860923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Safety, security, second chances. The question remains the same: <i>How far would you go to get what you want?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sky's the Limit

**Author's Note:**

> Although this benefits from knowing the canons, I've done my best so this can be read by anyone, familiar or no. 
> 
> Also, this fic is nearly complete, and will update every eight days.

He pretends not to notice them until they are at the `Booth`, but he knows who they are as soon as they enter the diner. This time around, he’s found himself in Boston, at the locally-owned Pippi’s Diner. He has yet to meet Pippi, and in some ways he doubts he ever will. The waitresses – Gwen in the morning, Marci at night – have shared a few stories about their eccentric owner, and she does not match those who come to the `Booth`.

The Man sees everyone for who they are and who they are not, and those who seek him out are all entirely different and all entirely the same. They are all desperate, though the degree varies by person, and more are well-intentioned than not. Some could live without the deal he arranges, some could not.

But their eyes are all the same.

+++

She’s hesitant.

(Most are.)

Her hesitance is more in regards to approaching the truth to the myth, rather than what she is about to do. Her resolve is strong and unwavering, her desperation masked by her determination.

"I, uh, hear the pastrami sandwich is good here."

He looks up from the `Book`, and smiles at her. He nods. "As have I." He gestures for her to take a seat.

**ASTRID**

"So, you're the Man," she says. "The Man that can…"

He nods again.

“My name’s Astrid,” she says. “ Astrid Farnsworth.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Astird. What brings you here?”

“I’ve heard you can make things happen.”

“I don’t make things happen.”

Confusion flickers for half a second, but she nods. “You provide a task. And the task make things happen.”

“I provided a task, and _you completing_ the task makes things happen.” He peers at her. “What do you want to happen, Astrid?”

The polite cheer of her face mutes. Gwen stops by, drops off a glass of water and a straw. Astrid takes the straw out of its wrapper, then fiddles with the paper. "I just got back from the oncologist," she says, finally. She blinks once, twice. "Me and my father just got back from the oncologist. My father hasn't been feeling well lately, and I urged him to go see someone, and that someone urged him to be a specialist." She twists the straw wrapper. “My mother had cancer. It’s actually how the two of them met, at a support group. My mother passed away when I was six, and…”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the Man intones.

Astrid nods. Her eyes are as watery as her voice as she continues, “It’s gotten easier, as the years have gone on. Well, not _easier_ , really, that loss is still a loss, but it doesn’t hold the same weight it used to. But my father… he’s been in remission for years, and we all thought he would be able to make it through without another recurrence, but…”

Silence reigns for a few somber moments.

"I want my father to get better. For this cancer to go away. For him to never get cancer again." She looks back up at him. “Can you do that?”

“I don’t do that. _You_ do that.”

“But I can ask for that.”

“You can ask for anything you want, Astrid. The sky’s the limit.”

Astrid gives him a small smile. Some of her warmth is returning. “Thankfully I don’t need the sky.”

He picks up his `Book`, and leafs through it. "You need to mislead thirteen people."

Her eyes narrow. "Mislead thirteen people,” she repeats.

“And update me as you do it.” He reaches for his coffee cup, takes a sip. “Not constant updates, if you don’t have time, but when you can, when you’ve made progress. Or not made progress.”

“What do you mean by misleading?”

He smiles. Astrid’s page is denoted by the clusters of stars running along the edges. He unscrew his pen top. "What do you think that means?"

“How long do I have to figure it out?”

“However long you need.”

+++

He slides into the `Booth` with an ease unlike any of his other clientele. The Man isn’t sure if it’s some intrinsic element unique to him, or the fact that he stops by nearly once a week.

“Where are you at now?”

**GABE**

“Two away from hitting five hundred. Not quite there to halfway, but…”

Gwen is smiling as she approaches the table. “Morning, Gabe,” she greets. “What can I get started for you?”

“Who makes the meatloaf special of the day?”

“Our chef, Teddy.”

“Whose recipe is it?”

“Our owner’s grandmother.”

Gabe nods, pleased. “One special, then.” He turns to the Man. “Anything I can get you?”

“A corned beef sandwich, please.”

“Coming right up.”

“Not the pastrami?”

The Man smiles. He opens the `Book`. “Who was the last person you stole money from?”

“Business man at a coffee shop. He was rude to the barista, and didn’t tip a penny. Took ten bucks off him. Wanted to drop it in the tip jar, but I just gave her a large tip with my own order.” Gabe drums his fingers on the table. “So I’m about… thirty-five percent of the way there.”

“Calculate that in your head?”

Gabe nods. “My kids and my grandkids, they’re all worried that I may start to lose it up here,” he says, tapping at his temple. “And at age eighty-something, can’t say I blame ‘em. They’ve been sending me everything they can to keep me sharp. My Maggie’s the worst of them, sending me packages every other week. Memory games, novels in every different language, more sudoku than I know what to do with. Math has never been my strong suit. But I’m getting there. Slowly but surely.” 

“Slowly but surely,” the Man repeats. “Like with your task.”

Gwen returns, a plate in each hand. “Let me know if you two need anything else.”

“Just another smile from you, sunshine.”

Gwen laughs, bright and bubbling, and shakes her head. 

Gabe beams back at her. “We should be just fine, then.” After she heads away, he starts in on the meatloaf special.

The Man takes a bite of his sandwich, and then looks at Gabe, considering, for a long moment. “You don’t see to be in a particular hurry.”

“Should I be?”

“Most are.”

Gabe smiles. “I’m not most people.”

It’s true. Most people don’t come here.

“Nah, I figure it’s better to do it slower. Not draw attention. And the most I’ve taken off one person is $20. I want what I want, but I don’t want to hurt others in the process.” He takes a moment to take a long sip of water. “You’re not getting tired of me, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

+++

Her mouth is set in a firm frown as she sits across from him.

**ELLE**

"Have you figured out your wording yet?"

She shakes her head. “I don't see what was wrong with what I was saying earlier. I want this all behind me.”

“Requests work better when they are specific. What is _this_? How do you define _behind you_?”

“Can't that be part of it? Figuring it out?”

“Is that want you want? To figure this out? That needs to be requested.”

“In part. I just… I want my life back.”

“Back from when? A year?” he guesses. “Two? Five? Twenty?”

She frowns. Turns towards the window, looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “You can go back that far?”

The Man stares at her.

It silences her. She goes back to staring distantly out the window.

He waits.

She sighs long and hard. “A… a year ago, I suppose. Around then.”

He unscrews his pen, turns to her page. “Describe yourself a year ago, or around then.”

She sighs again. “I worked for the BAU. The behavioral analysis unit for the FBI, out of Quantico. Transferred from sex crimes. I was damn good at my job. Then a whack job came and stabbed me, wrote on the wall with my blood… And don't you dare ask me how that felt.”

He raised his hands.

“I haven't been the same since. And I can understand that, but I… I want it back.”

“You want to go back to the BAU?”

She shakes her head. “My supervisor is a jackass. I could never work with him again.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn't trust me.”

“Do you want you to trust him?”

“He's not important.”

“You're the one that brought him up.”

“He never looked at me the same at after, neither him or the rest if the team.”

“After what, you being stabbed?”

She nodded.

“And what else? There's more to it, isn't there.”

She rises her head up, meets his gaze levelly. “I shot a man. Self-defense.”

“They don't believe that.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know.”

“Yes you do.” He leans in. “This past year behind you. His death included.”

She nods.

“What of your involvement in his death?”

Her gaze goes sharp. “What do you mean?”

“Do you wish it had gone differently?”

Elle narrows her eyes. “Should I?”

He shrugs. “You tell me.”

“When do I get the task?” she snaps.

“I’ll give you the task when you give me what I need. This arrangement hinges on honesty. You are holding back.”

She glares at him, then slides out of the `Booth` and leaves.

+++

In a diner full of less-financially well-off college students and thrifty retirees, he and his designer suits always stand out. Today he is dressed in a cool charcoal gray suit, waistcoat and pants, with a white dress shirt and a brilliant silver tie.

He glances around the diner, quick and assessing, as he always does, and then makes his way to the `Booth`.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts.

**ARTHUR**

“One heinous act,” he continues.

“What about it?”

“It’s a rather broad task, isn’t it? And you weren’t forthcoming with any specifics.”

“And you don’t care for that.”

Gwen sets a mug down on the table, and fills it mostly-full with decaf for him. She reaches into her apron, and sets two creamers down next to his mug.

Arthur gives her a smile, but his expression goes neutral as soon as she’s left. “No,” he tells the Man, as he adds the creamers. “Specifics make jobs easier.”

“Or harder.”

“Depends on the person.”

“And you’re the former.”

Arthur nods. “The more details, the greater the accuracy. Accuracy provides better results. I work best when I have all the details. Something this broad, this subjective…” 

“You like specifics,” the Man says. He unscrews his pen, flips to Arthur’s page. “Do you like challenges?”

He takes a long sip of coffee. “I prefer challenges where there are set answers at the end. Crossword puzzles, for example,” he says, gesturing to the paper lying next to the condiment stand. “Or logic puzzles. I don’t care how difficult something is, so long as there is a clear-cut, objective answer at the end.”

“You prefer one type of challenge,” The Man says. “But on a whole…?”

Annoyance flickers through his expression, but he says, “Yes. I like challenges.”

+++

She enters the diner.

The Man draws himself up.

She doesn’t look as he imagined. A business woman, now in her mid-forties, dressed in something stylish and powerful. Conventionally attractive. An assertive woman, strong, but nothing to make others think twice about her strength and authority. Her eyes, though… her gaze is sharp and bright, and in them is cruelty and danger and restraint.

She makes her way over to the `Booth`.

**SARAH**

"I hear the pastrami sandwich here is nice," she says.

The Man nods. "Please, sit," he says.

She does.

The Man spends a minute staring at this woman who has defied what has never been defied. She has stood up to higher powers than him, and yet she is at the `Booth`. "What do you want, Sarah?" he asks.

She purses her lips. "You know my name," she replies.

The Man nods. "Thirty years is not enough time for any of us to forget what you did."

Sarah stares at him. "You know what I did." She knows how to guard her words. No questions.

"I do," he replies. "Whatever you need, whatever goal you want to accomplish, I will tell you the task at hand and do what I can to make you succeed at your goal."

Sarah nods. Gwen comes over, and Sarah asks for a glass of iced tea. It's quick to come – whether Gwen can sense the same things that The Man can, that she can sense the raw power of Sarah, he doesn't know. But the rhythm of the diner and the rhythm of the `Booth` synchronize and the gravity of Sarah draws a glass of iced tea with a perfect lemon quarter on the rim.

"I have a daughter," Sarah starts. "She’s about to turn sixteen."

"That must be difficult for you.”

"I locked away my sewing machine," she replies. "You can never be too careful. I can never be too careful. I've done what I can, everything I can, but my daughter is sharp. Clever. She has a hunger for the world, the ways to conquer it. And I want her to follow that and do what she wants, but there comes a point..."

He waits.

Sarah draws herself up. "I want my daughter to be unable to make any deals."

And so she is willing to make a deal herself.

The Man is not unaware of the enormity of the fact. Or that this deal with require a greater delicacy than most. "I think that's a very good request," the Man starts. "But there is a way to better word it, and it would relieve me if I were permitted to voice my thoughts."

She does not grant him the permission, instead cocks her head to the side and asks, “Why?" There’s suspicion, but also curiosity.

"Because you are powerful, and I do not wish to be working cross purposes from you." For all the power she holds, for the danger she is, she cannot harm him. Best not to make enemies, though.

Sarah nods.

"You want your daughter _not_ to make deals. Not that you want her unable to. That could invite an unpleasant deliberate misinterpretation. Wording needs to be very precise, as I am sure you know."

"Do I need to be more precise on the word _deals_?"

The Man shakes his head. "There are some things that we intrinsically know and understand. In this realm, a deal is one of those things."

Sarah nods again. Repeats, "I want my daughter _not_ to make any deals. No men in ` Booths`, no crossroad demons, no violet hills, no Faust, no gob–” Her nostrils flare. “No deals.”

“That is a deal we can make,” The Man tells her. “The only condition is that you need to talk to me. Come in and update me on your progress.”

“Do I need to answer everything?”

He taps his pen against the `Book`. “Not answering everything will not negatively impact your task and reward.”

“But?”

“Those that don’t answer don’t have such an easy time completing their task.”

She spends a long minute thinking it over, then nods.

He nods back, and opens the `Book`. It takes him a few attempts to locate her page. “You will have to help someone achieve their dreams.” He does not wait for her to ask for the specifics, instead preemptively tells her, “No further detail is given.”

Sarah narrows her eyes. Glances down at her watch. “I need to return to work.” She opens her leather wallet and leaves enough to cover her drink and tip.

She says nothing in parting.

+++

The door rings.

The Man knows Nico gets self-conscious at other staring, and that there are likely others in the diner who are. He still tracks his progress across the diner floor, the dull thumps of the crutches hitting the floor.

The Man finally looks up.

He turns on his good leg, and slides himself back into the `Booth`.

**NICO**

“Good afternoon.” 

Nico gives the Man a thin smile. “Not particularly.” He looks around for a waitress – it’s the time of day where it’s changed to Marci. Which mean that she’s in the kitchen, so customers don’t see her working through her law reading.

“What is particular about it?”

“Just about everything,” Nico mutters. Another thin smile. “Like most every other day.”

Marci finally makes her way out out of the kitchen, stops by the `Booth` with a plate in hand. “Chef made the wrong order of eggs. You like ‘em scrambled?”

Nico stares at her.

“Don’t worry, they’re on the house.”

He nods.

She sets the plate down. “You need ketchup or hot sauce?”

“No, thank you.” Once she’s left, he reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a cafeteria packet of plastic cutlery. And quickly digs in.

“How are things going?” the Man asks, after Nico pushes away an empty plate.

“Slow. My leg hurts a lot. I can’t concentrate.” He sighs, and his head falls into his hands. “You said, back in the beginning, that as the task goes on, and as you make progress, things start to work out. Right?”

The Man nods.

“Is there anyway I can ask for an upfront deposit on that? Half of the pain gone now, half when I’m done?”

“That’s not how it works.”

Nico rubs his hand over his face. “I know how to do what you’ve asked me to do. Planning it out, I know what to do. But all the planning– it’s for what I could have done, what my skills were, before all this. Planning this, accounting for my current state… The task you’ve given me is easy. But I can’t do it, not when I’m in this pain, when I’m in this slow, when my leg is this fucking–”

The Man sips at his coffee. Suggestions do not go over well with Nico – he’s already considered and ruled out every option the Man has suggested. The task it not an easy one, would not be for most people, but he brings a very unique skillset. 

Finally Nico pulls himself back to the present. His expression is ashen when he lifts his head from his hands, his hands trembling slightly. “I need to revise my plans,” he says, voice neutral. He shifts to the end of the `Booth`, and pushes himself onto his good leg, reaching back for his crutches.

Behind him, the Man sees Marci hovering, ready to step in and help if needed.

It is, but not in any way that Marci can help. “Thanks for the eggs,” he tells her, as he makes his way towards the door.

+++

This is an aura the Man feels a block down. 

The Man closes the `Book`, covers it with a newspaper.

And waits.

"You," the man says, in a British drawl, standing at the edge of the `Booth`, "are bad for business."

**CROWLEY**

"I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh, cut the cryptic crap. We both know who you are, what you are, and I'll tell you, this used to be a rather profitable area before word got out that there was a man who could do anything anyone wanted for a price. I had that price down. Ten years, that's a pretty bargain if you ask me. Not any of that nancy torture one person crap. How many have gone for that? Zilch.”

“Have you been listening in on me?”

“You talk loud.”

“I really don't.”

“You talk, and to me, and that means you talk loud.”

“I’ll try to lower my voice.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “Or you could relocate.”

The Man laces his fingers on top of the table. “It’s not that easy.”

“And why’s that?”

He leans in. “I can’t leave in the middle of a deal. You should know that. Besides, I like the pastrami here.”

“There are other pastrami sandwiches elsewhere.”

“I’m not leaving,” he says, tone polite and even.

Crowley still flinches. “Well,” he says, drawing the word out. He slides out of the `Booth`. “At least I know where to find you if I need anything.”

“As do I.”

+++

This is an aura the Man feels ten blocks down. 

He folds his newspaper, stills.

The door chimes as she enters.

He cautiously watches her approach.

"I never understood why you loved these places so much," she says. "But they're starting to grow on me."

**MORGANA**

She slides down across from him. A wicked grin curves on her face. "I hear the reuben is good here."

"It's a pastrami now."

“Got tired of the reubens?”

“There’s only so long you can eat the same thing.”

“It’s new to me, though.” Projecting her voice, she says, “So I’ll order the pastrami.”

“Anything else?” Marci calls back from across the diner. There are no other customers at the diner, and so she is sitting at a table near the entrance, law school textbook and notebooks sprawled in front of her.

“Iced tea, please.”

“To go,” the Man adds.

Morgana pouts at him. “I should rather be here for some time.”

“What brings you to this side of the Atlantic, Morgana?”

“Letting a few matters cool down. I may have gotten into an altercation.”

“Can't imagine that.”

Morgana sticks her tongue out at him. And tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll have you know Morgause started it.”

“This time.”

She huffs.

He smiles, and opens the `Book`. “You need to make three different people break three different laws.”

“For the pastrami or for the iced tea?” she teases. When he doesn’t reply, aside from continuing to smile, she continues, “I haven't told you what I want yet.”

“After all this time, Morgana, I know.”

Morgana just smiles at him. “Okay, I'll play it your way.” She stands back up. “I’ve been meaning for us to have a little chat.”

The Man watches as she goes to the hostess stand, where her meal is somehow already ready. “Put it on his tab,” Morgana tells Marci. She looks back at him. “He still owes me.”

He does.


	2. Only If You Want

He’s wearing the same sturdy brown jacket and heavy dark jeans he’s worn every time he has come to the `Booth`. But there’s something different to him today, a different note lingering in the air as he props his crutches up and slides across from the Man.

**NICO**

“I don’t need my leg healed anymore.”

It’s a lie.

An interesting lie.

(Those are so rarely managed.)

The Man takes a sip of his coffee, then opens up the `Book`, pen poised for note-taking. He hasn’t managed to take too many notes on Nico, though – Nico’s eyes are too sharp, and during their second meeting he had casually asked what language the Man was writing in. Better to catch-up after Nico has left, but better still to be prepared. “And why is that?”

“I don’t need you– I don’t need the current deal to heal my leg anymore,” he rephrases. “I found another way. And I want to make a new deal.”

The Man gestures for him to go on. New deals are also quite interesting.

“There’s this program. Referred to me by an old buddy. Said I’d be a good candidate. I want to sign up for it.”

“And what’s stopping you?”

“I’m afraid.”

“And you don’t want to be afraid.”

Nico shakes his head. “No. Being afraid in the field… feeling fear… that’s what keeps you alive, more than being unafraid would.”

“Few are wise enough to know that.”

“Few have been through what I have.”

It’s usually arrogance when he is told that, has been told that. War has grown more and more brutal, though. Takes more and more. Nico is neither arrogant nor exaggerating.

He leans in, his arms on the table, his shoulders showing as much openness as he can manage. When he speaks, his voice is low and even and there is nothing but surety to him as he says, “I want fear not to hold me back. Can you do that?”

“No. But you can do that.”

“Can I trade in my deal?”

“Only if you want.”

“I do.”

The Man nods. He looks down at the `Book`. Flips to the next page. “You will have to terrify six people.”

A light gleams in Nico’s eyes. The air of desolation is gone, replaced by something more anticipatory, borderline predatory. He spends a few moments contemplating. “Does it matter how?”

The Man shakes his head.

He looks over to the clock on the wall, and nods to himself. “I have some errands to run.”

The Man has some notes to write.

*

“Do you mind if I sit?”

He looks up at her.

**GWEN**

“Not at all.”

Gwen smiles at him, and sits down at the `Booth`. There’s a coffee mug between her hands, and she takes a long drink.

“Rough night?” the Man asks.

She laughs. “Long,” she corrects. “My brother had a midterm paper due this morning. But with the level of volunteer work he’s been doing lately, he barely had an outline written. So I offered to stay up with him. Moral support, peer-editing, talking him out of running away to join the circus, more moral support.”

The Man huffs a laugh. “And how’d things turn out?”

“The paper was completed, and with enough time for him to get a brief nap before going to class.”

He raises his own coffee mug. “Congratulations.”

Gwen smiles back. “To Eli,” she says, before draining the rest of her cup. “I messaged Marci, and she’s agreed to come in early, so I only have another hour left of all this.”

“It’s a good thing it’s not busy.” Aside from Teddy in the kitchen, the Man and Gwen are the only ones in the diner.

She nods. “You are the most low-maintenance customer we have.” She stares at him a long minute. “What do you do?”

“Hm?” he asks. He always figured Marci would be the one to ask first.

“I just see you with a lot of different people. It’s strange. Not strange in a bad way,” she hurries to add, “but intriguing.”

“Intriguing.”

“You talk to a lot of people. And sometimes they leave happy, sometimes they don’t. And I can’t figure it out. None of us can.”

“What do you think I do?”

She stares at him for another long minute. Her gaze is level. Equal.

The idea of her considering him her equal astounds him.

“I think you help people,” she says.

He nods a few times. “It’s an interesting idea.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but the bell above the door chimes, and she slides out of the `Booth`.

 

*

She sits down at the `Booth`, and not a scant moment later, Marci is setting a plate down at her spot. Half a sandwich with a small bowl of soup.

"I called ahead,” she explains. "I have to come you during my lunch, and I wasn't able to prepare something for today."

**SARAH**

“Any reason why you have to come during lunch?”

She carefully unwraps her cutlery from the napkin roll, and stares at him.

“My… hours of operation are… flexible,” he tells her with a quirk of a smile. “If your lunch hour doesn’t work, you can stop by before, or stop by after. The diner closes around ten or eleven, but provided your own work day doesn’t go that long…”

Sarah shakes her head. “For the actors and crew, it does. We’re in the middle of Hell Week. I work as a business manager, so I’m not pulling as long hours are others are, but it's a busy week for us all."

"Have you been able to work on the task?"

Sarah finishes chewing and swallows. "I've been thinking. Make someone's dream come true. In theatre, there are a lot of dreams of making it on the stage. So that’s what I need to do. We're a week away from opening the show, which means the company is already setting audition dates for the next show.”

The Man nods. "How does a business manager make an up-and-coming actor or actress’s dream come true?”

“I graduated with a major in arts management, but I have a minor in acting and dramaturgy. I had wanted to double-major, but at times acting…” She draws herself up. “I’ve worked with a few of the directors before, and they’ve asked me to sit in on casting every few shows, covering someone who couldn’t make it, being the tiebreaker. I’ll just say I miss being involved, and ask to sit in on casting for the next show. It's the easiest option."

The Man makes a note to check an old client’s page. "And you want this to be easy?"

"There is nothing that says it needs to be hard." Sarah holds the Man's gaze. "You said you gave me all the conditions of the deal. It was very simple, and there is room for interpretation – any suppositions were not specified, they were not part of the deal."

"Dreams can be specific, though, wouldn't you imagine?"

Sarah looks back down at her sandwich. "An actress may want to make it on stage, but she may mean it as Broadway, not a city theatre company’s first straight play of the season."

"No musicals?"

"The company produces some musicals," Sarah says. "I’m just never conferred on them. Singing was never exactly my strong suit.” She clears her throat, and takes another bite of her sandwich.

“So you have an option available for how to go about the task. Do you have an actor or actress in mind?”

Sarah nods. "There's an actress I like. Kelsey. She’s been with the company for a couple of seasons, always gets a good minor role. In the auditions I’ve seen her in, her performance goes well. Strong, vibrant, she’s talented and she takes command of the stage. But once given a script for a cold-read, she goes stiff. The directors fear she won’t be strong enough for a starring role.”

"And that’s what she wants?"

Sarah finishes chewing, before she says, "She told me once, back during her first show, that her dream was to land a starring role. And she’s not much of a singer either."

"And?"

"And what?”

“You don’t worry that her dream may have been a bit more specific than you told her? You give her a dream, but it may not be _her_ dream.”

The transformation is startling. Sarah’s body goes rigid, her gaze goes dark. “I’m not _giving_ her her dream. I’m helping make her dream come true. I am going to give her the script ahead of time, so she can prepare, and earn the dream she has been working towards.”

He considers her. “Making a dream come true is one of the… friendlier tasks that can be given. But you seem very uncomfortable with this."

She gives him a level look. "You should know why."

He shakes his head. "And I guarantee you," he says, in the most assuaging tone he can manage, "I have no reason to lie."

The charged energy in the air dissipates when Sarah looks down at her plate. Then out the window. "He offered me my dreams. He _gave _me my dreams," she says, quietly. "I don't like the idea of... I don't like the idea of sharing too many personal qualities with him."__

__He nods. "That part of the story is not commonly known."_ _

__She shakes her head. "It was his best offer, and I turned him down." There is no boast to the statement– just an underlying pride that has settled through the years, but settled into her bones._ _

__None have done so well against the Goblin King._ _

__*_ _

__Marci is filling up his mug with hot water for his early afternoon tea when Astrid walks up to the` Booth`._ _

__**ASTRID** _ _

__“Need anything?” Marci asks._ _

__“Could I get a coke?” Astrid asks. “Oh, and by any chance do you have blueberry-pecan pie?”_ _

__Marci stares. “Not unless you want to cram a piece of pecan and a piece of blueberry together.”_ _

__Astrid shakes her head. “Sorry, my coworker was very specific about what he wanted me to bring back.”_ _

__Marci nods and walks off._ _

__“Interesting coworker,” the Man says._ _

__She lets out a surprised laugh. “You could say that, yeah. He told me he had the best blueberry-pecan pie at a diner once, and when he found out I was stopping by one, he asked that I ask if they serve it. Somehow it’s not the strangest thing he’s asked me for.”_ _

__“I’ll take your word for it.” The Man unscrews his pen. “You seem to be in a good mood.”_ _

__Astrid nods. “My father is feeling better.”_ _

__“I’m glad to hear that. Have you made any progress on the task?”_ _

__“I think I misled my first person.”_ _

__“Tell me about it.”_ _

__Marci sets down the coke, a straw, and moves to the front of the diner to greet a new couple._ _

__“Well, I work at… in… I work as an assistant at a Harvard lab. And I’ve lived in Boston almost my entire life. And you live in a place long enough, you know tourists. Especially around campus. And this woman comes up to me, explains that she’s here for a rowing event, to surprise her nephew. And I start explaining the way there, and a few streets down, it occurs to me – would this count? So I started giving the wrong directions. She was early enough, that I figured if I sent her in the right direction…”_ _

__“So where did you send her?”_ _

__“A gas station, just three blocks away. She would’ve been able to get there in time.”_ _

__“So you misled someone.”_ _

__Astrid nods, then hesitates. Bites her lip._ _

__“But you have concerns,” the Man adds, jotting a note down._ _

__“I’m getting rid of my dad’s cancer,” she says. “Giving wrong directions to thirteen people… it doesn’t feel like what the task is asking. But at the same time, I am a nice, friendly person.”_ _

__The Man nods._ _

__“I like to help people, it’s why I do what I do. And so I think, that woman trusting me, and me using that to send her the wrong place… I do think _that_ counts as misleading someone. Doesn’t it?”_ _

__“You tell me.”_ _

__*_ _

__Business has picked up, and Marci can do little more than wave when Arthur enters the diner. Today he’s in a light gray suit and vest, as perfectly tailored as always, with a paisley burgundy tie._ _

__**ARTHUR** _ _

__"I'm still weighing options," he explains._ _

__"How long does it take?"_ _

__Arthur shakes his head. “It’s a high-risk venture,I’m not sure how long it'll take."_ _

__"For other things, though. I’m guessing you do this often."_ _

__“There are always multiple variables. The number of options, the desirability of each option, any drawbacks, weighing the pros and cons, what you may have to compromise, what you’re not willing to compromise and how that impacts other factors. The immediacy needed, the level of importance, everything like that.”_ _

__"What level of importance is this?"_ _

__Arthur doesn't reply._ _

__"Cobb's happiness is important to you."_ _

__"That's not a question."_ _

__"Am I correct?"_ _

__"Yes."_ _

__"You haven't talked much about him."_ _

__"Also not a question."_ _

__"What is your relationship?"_ _

__Arthur doesn't reply._ _

__"Is he a friend? A coworker?"_ _

__"Both."_ _

__Silence._ _

__"You know this only works if you talk."_ _

__“I have made no progress, have only been brainstorming and ruling out every idea I’ve come up with, but I have been talking.”_ _

__"Yes. You're very reliable in coming in and talking to me. But now I want to talk about Cobb."_ _

__Arthur lets out an impatient sigh. "He's a talented architect. He's got a– a family. Two children, a boy and a girl. James is two, Phillipa is four. They recently lost their mother. They need their father. They love him, and he loves them."_ _

__"And you?"_ _

__Arthur stares at him, eyes narrowed, expression guarded._ _

__"What's your relationship with him? You know, most people ask for their own happiness, not the happiness of another. Why? Why his, and not yours?"_ _

__"He lost himself around the time Mal died. He can't take care of himself, he can't take care of his basic needs, he doesn't know how to right the wrong of her death and its consequences. I loved Mal, she was one of my closest friends. But I’ve lost others close to me through the course of my life, I’ve learned how to mourn. I loved her, and her death has impacted me, impacts me still, but I know how to grieve, how I can honor her but move past the mourning. Dom can't. He can't move on, he can't restart his life, he can't do it. But I can. I can work for my own happiness, but he can't work for his own."_ _

__The Man nods. "What does his happiness look like for you?"_ _

__“Him back in the States. Back to his children.”_ _

__“What about you? Where do you fit into his happiness?”_ _

__“I fit wherever he wants me to fit.”_ _

__“Where do you want to fit?”_ _

__Arthur stares at him a long time. “In whatever way makes him happy.”_ _

__*_ _

__There’s the same casual ease of movement, but his expression is closed off._ _

__**GABE** _ _

__“You want something to eat, or just a drink while you chat?” Marci asks, once he’s been seated._ _

__“Just a BLT, and a lemonade.”_ _

__“Coming right up.”_ _

__Gabe seems to be composing his thoughts._ _

__The Man stares at him and waits._ _

__“I have respect for vets,” Gabe says, finally. “Whether or not I agree with what they were fighting for, you fight for your country, you have my respect. And when you’re a vet, and you meet a vet, you know.”_ _

__The Man nods._ _

__“I was walking around town, and I see this kid at a street corner. He’s mid-twenties, dressed in a pair of battered jeans, a flannel shirt, and he’s got this beat-up old duffel at his feet. He’s holding up a cardboard sign, ‘Homeless vet. Everything helps. God bless.’_ _

__“And I knew this kid… I just knew he wasn’t the real deal. It wasn’t just an age thing. I’ve known a few boys who went on a six-month tour of Iraq straight out of high school and came back ruined, sick and struggling, and you can see it in their eyes. I looked at this kid, and there was nothing in his eyes. And my grandson, Antoine, he’s… in a profession where he access to certain information, and so I called him up and told him what was going on, he asked me for the guy’s picture, I took one, and a few minutes later, Toine texts me back, all this info on this guy. He ain’t a vet. He’s got a second-cousin once removed who was a state senator who proposed a bill to cut funding to vets, but that’s as close as he gets._ _

__“No, he’s going to grad school for sociology. And that’s what this was for him. A sociology experiment. I don’t know the details, and I don’t want to know the details. I just wrote a note – ‘shame on you, Lyle, for faking being a vet.’ I wanted to say something a bit more…”_ _

__“Expressive?” the Man offers._ _

__Gabe finally cracks a smile. “That’s one word for it.”_ _

__Marci drops off the BLT and lemonade, then makes her way back to the kitchen._ _

__Gabe takes a bite, and lets out a long sigh._ _

__“Did you take any money from him?” the Man asks._ _

__“Forty bucks.”_ _

__The Man raises an eyebrow. “That’s the most you’ve taken, isn’t it?”_ _

__Gabe nods. “Chat this kid up, made a show of donating money, but I slipped the note in took the two twenties out. “It doesn’t count towards my goal, though.”_ _

__“Oh?”_ _

__“Soon after this, I ran into an actual vet. Hispanic kid, young, whip-smart, but you could see it in his eyes, whatever he went through wrecked him. Wrecked his knee too. Went to VA for reparative surgery, but there were complications, he came out worse than when he started. With all the budget cuts VA is facing, it was a miracle they could put him through one surgery, but they’re not going to finance him through the second. And as for the rest, I could fill in the gaps. Homeless. Near hopeless. You could see it in his eyes, he’s seen it all, and he’s struggling on the other side.”_ _

__“Did you give him the money?”_ _

__“We talked first. I could tell he wasn’t the sort who would take any sort of charity, so I didn’t try and offer it. We just talked for about a half hour. I gave him a hug, told him to hang in there, and slipped the forty into his pocket then.”_ _

__The Man nods. “And this doesn’t count towards your goal for the task?”_ _

__Gabe shakes his head. “I was just an intermediary. Folks wanted to donate money to a vet, I just helped the process along. I wasn’t stealing, taking it from Lyle, because the money didn’t belong to him in the first damn place.” And then he eats in silence._ _

__“There’s more to this that bothers you,” the Man says._ _

__Gabe sighs. “I keep thinking about how great it’s going to be to have Steve back. But there’s a lot of things… the world wasn’t perfect where he left it, but I was hoping it would be a bit more perfect when he came back. He’s not going to be happy with a few things. And how we’ve treated vets is certainly going to be one of them.” After a moment, he adds, “And bananas are different. He’s not going to like the new ones.”_ _

__“Bananas,” he repeats._ _

__Gabe smiles, and there seems to be a burden off his shoulders. “Did you know that the bananas we have now aren’t the bananas we had back then? Well…”_ _

__*_ _

__She almost seems human as she walks in, her hair in a side-braid, in a white shirt with red flowers. The aura of power is still there, for those who know where to look, but she lacks her normal gravitas._ _

__Her countenance is light, almost cheerful._ _

__**MORGANA** _ _

__“I went to a wake,” she announces, as she slides down across from him._ _

__“Really,” the Man says. “Who died?“_ _

__“A young man by the name of Thomas.”_ _

__“Did you know him?”_ _

__She shakes her head. “I pretended to,” she says, completely unabashed, which is almost enough to draw a laugh out of him. “I befriended his sister. Ana. Poor girl, she was so distraught. I just listened to her talk and cry and talk and cry. I kept her hydrated. And well-fed. Told her she needed to keep her energy up.” Morgana takes a long sip of tea. “Did you know it’s illegal in the state of Massachusetts to eat more than three sandwiches at a wake?”_ _

__“I did not.”_ _

__Morgana smirks, and takes a longer sip of her tea._ _

__“So that’s one out of three.”_ _

__“For me to get whatever you think I want.” She taps her nails on the table for a few moments. “What do you think I want?”_ _

__“I’ll tell you if you haven’t figured out by the third. But you will.”_ _

__“Do I get a hint?”_ _

__“Do you want a hint?”_ _

__She considers him for a long minute, then huffs a laugh. “So I’m at one out of three. How does that stack up against the rest of your poor, unfortunate souls? You’re at a full docket, aren’t you?”_ _

__“More or less.”_ _

__“So how do I compare to them?”_ _

__“It’s not a competition.”_ _

__Morgana stares at him for a long minute, then smirks. “Oh, I’m winning, aren’t I?”_ _

__“It’s not a competition,” he repeats._ _

__“I just came by here to chat, to visit with you. And I’ve progressed the furthest against those that have come to you, desperate for your help.”_ _

__“Desperation is not always bad.”_ _

__Morgana snorts. “Still telling that pretty little lie?”_ _

__“Still adamant it’s a lie?”_ _

__*_ _

__**ELLE** _ _

__“Alright,” she says, sitting down. “A year ago, things were going well for me. They were going better two years prior, before I had been shot point-blank in my home, with my blood used to paint the walls…” She closes her eyes, clenches her jaw. “But I suppose I needed to learn that the world could be crueler than I thought. And I got some closure, too… so I want to go back to a year ago. Back to who I was. I had a reputation of being a good agent. I had job security. I had faith in the system. I want my… I want myself back.”_ _

__Silence hangs in the air between them._ _

__She’s the first to look away. Voice small, she says, “I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask.”_ _

__“It’s not,” the Man says, quietly. “It’s a better request than many.”_ _

__“So what do I need to do?”_ _

__“First, I need to know – do you want to erase the past year? Do you want to go back a year, back to who you were, know to make different choices?”_ _

__“I don’t want it erased. As much as it hurt… as much as there’s part of me that wants it gone… I can’t get rid of what happened. I just want to feel like I did a year ago.”_ _

__The Man nods, and flips the` Book` open. “You need to make a politician change their mind on one of their platforms.”_ _

__Elle nods, and mulls it over for a few moments._ _

__He holds his pen to the page. “What’s your reaction?”_ _

__“I’m just thinking about platforms. That’s something they’ve built their campaign on. Not an idle switch of a school tax-credit vote, but something they feel strongly about. Which tend to be the more controversial topics.” She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Can I change the topic?”_ _

__He flips a few pages back in the` Book`. “Yes, but no more than three times.”_ _

__“What about the politician?”_ _

__“That counts towards the three changes.”_ _

__She nods._ _

__“Does the task seem reasonable?”_ _

__“I don’t know about reasonable,” she says, with a hint of the dry humor she had during their first meeting, “I don’t know how any of this could be considered reasonable. But I can do it.”_ _


End file.
